


Methods and Consequences of Frostbite Prevention

by gaypilots (tofallinlovewithafridge)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cold Weather, Crack, Fluff, Gen, Knitting, M/M, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 03, matching sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4718858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofallinlovewithafridge/pseuds/gaypilots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of a heater-related crisis and a cold snap, John finds another way to keep warm - and it doesn't even involve sharing a bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Methods and Consequences of Frostbite Prevention

Finch takes no time in decking out the Library with space heaters when the heating goes out, but it doesn't stop the cold of a November in New York from seeping in anyway.

And, as Murphy's law would have it, the heating going out happens to coincide with a particularly cold snap, and the issue is something none of them can fix – unsurprising, considering their various collective talents are perhaps not the most applicable to heating repair. And worse, it's something Harold can't pay to have fixed; he just has to wait for the building's boiler man to come in, and whilst he is heavily plied for his secrecy, no amount of money will make him want to come all the way out to fix someone's heating in the coldest winter in two decades.

At least, Harold thinks, the man has some integrity.

Meanwhile, the poor weather has led to some considerable lightening of the numbers – apparently, even prospective murderers want to avoid the bad weather, he suggests to Mr Reese one morning, to which Reese responds “Amateurs.”

Shaw, for her part, has stopped coming in completely, deciding to stay in the safe house that she has designated her own. Harold, having chosen to stay in the Library during the cold weather, cannot blame her; he wonders why Mr Reese insists on spending time there, rather than in his own apartment, but when he asks, John simply says, “I've had colder nights,” and carries on playing a rather one-sided game of cards with Bear. “In any case,” John calls out as Harold walks away, gait not at steady as it usually is thanks to the cold, “Somebody should make sure you don't get frostbite.”

In actuality, Harold is fairly certain that the reason Mr Reese decided to stay was because, when he came in with hot drinks and microwaveable snacks on the second day of the brutally cold weather, he overheard Harold complaining about the weather to Bear, even leaving appropriate pauses, as if expecting a response.

In his defense, Harold was anticipating being alone all day – had he known Reese would turn up, he wouldn't have struck up the conversation, even if Bear did look very much like he was listening.

He is grateful for the company John provides; at the very least, it means Bear can be taken outside on walks, and, to be honest, Harold is grateful that there's somebody he can talk to, face to face, other than the dog.

Reese mostly spends his time in the depths of the Library, emerging only for more coffee, since hot water from the electric kettle is a more reliable source of heat that any of the storage heaters. Whenever Harold stumbles across John among the bookshelves, he is always reading; he has developed, or perhaps reacquired, quite the penchant for classic science fiction – of which Harold quite approves.

He does notice that John's camp bed has moved towards the center of the building, away from any outside walls, and that he has commandeered a space heater positioned directly next to it, and that a very thick, red woolen blanket has appeared on top of the light duvet cover already there.

Reese makes frequent journeys out; Bear enjoys going out with him, since Harold finds himself more or less bound to the Library, with both the ache in his neck and spine from the cold, and the knowledge that he would inevitably slip on the icy sidewalk, particularly with Bear. Most days, John comes back laden heavy with bags of comfort food and ready meals, some painkillers, and some of Bear's favorite treats.

That's why Harold doesn't think anything of it when Bear returns to the Library, John in tow, wearing a dark blue knitted sweater.

When he sees it, Harold has to laugh; the dog looks thrilled to be wearing his new sweater, despite its imperfections – there are holes from dropped stitches, and none of the buttons fastening it over Bear's back match.

“That's wonderful, Mr Reese,” Harold says, beckoning Bear over to him. “Where did you find it?”

John shrugs, putting down the bags he's returned with. “Just found it.” His cheeks and the tips of his ears are pink.

Harold, in his naivete, thinks nothing of it, and Bear spends the afternoon panting happily and lying across Harold's feet.

 

* * *

 

They eat together most evenings; hot food very quickly became a priority in the cold weather, and, as John has learned in his years working with Harold, it is easier, quicker, and cheaper to buy and heat a ready meal for two than one each.

John also appreciates seeing Harold away from his workstation.

For twenty minutes in the evening, they sit opposite each other at a table away from Finch's workstation, and eat a meal together. They discuss when the next number might come up, when Shaw will come back, when Root will make her next appearance, when the boiler man will come. Most of the time, Harold complains about how cold it is – John nods and smiles politely when he does this, and on the fourth day, Harold says, “I know you've endured worse temperatures for longer, Mr Reese, and that you're only humoring me when I complain about the cold you did that both voluntarily and  _without_ being held together by titanium rods, so you can stop nodding like that.”

John stops nodding, but smiles a little wider. Harold eyes him. “What?” he asks.

“Most of the time, Harold,” John says, smiling as he mixes his peas in with his potato mash, “You're just complaining about how cold your feet are.”

“Well, Mr Reese, _some_ of us have never had frostbite.”

John smiles, and to Harold's disgust, adds ketchup to his peas and mash. “Would you like me to get some thicker socks for you next time I'm out?”

“Oh – of course not, Mr Reese,” Harold sputters, flustered. “I couldn't ask you to do that for me.”

“But you could heavily imply it,” John says, looking up at Harold.

“I simply – I cannot ask you to do that for me.” Harold says firmly. “Honestly.”

John shrugs, and says, “You could think of them as an early Christmas present.”

“We don't do Christmas presents, Mr Reese.”

“Well, I have to say, you seem like the kind of person who'd appreciate getting socks for Christmas, Harold.” John smiles, and eats some of his mashed potato. “But I won't buy you any socks.”

“Thank you, Mr Reese,” Harold says, and he spends the rest of the meal considering just why John getting him a present is such an abhorrent idea.

 

* * *

 

The next afternoon, a pair of socks appear on Harold's desk during one of his walks around the Library. He sees them, stops and sighs, before grabbing them and stalking off to find John among the stacks.

He finds John sat on the floor, leaning against a bookcase and reading (rereading, Harold knows) Huxley. John looks up at him with confusion when he sees Harold, but looks more innocent as the socks are brandished in his direction.

“I believe I requested not to be bought socks,” Harold says, with as much offense in his voice as he can muster when he's secretly touched.

“I didn't buy them,” John says calmly.

“Oh, lord,” Harold says, rubbing his eyes with the hand not currently holding the socks over Mr Reese. “Please, _please,_ don't tell me you stole the socks.”

“I had them lying around,” John says, “I wasn't using them. I swear, they're clean,” he says, noticing Harold's sideways glance to the dubious socks. “I'm not keen to go back to a point in my life where I'm stealing socks, Harold, and certainly not for the sake of a present.” Immediately, Harold regrets saying that, and John seems to see it, because he smiles and says, “Not even for you, Harold.”

“They look like they hold... Sentimental value,” Finch says haltingly.

“Finch, you know how I feel about sentiment.” When Harold stays quiet, John says, “Just try them?”, and, against all reasoning, Harold sits down opposite Mr Reese on the floor, swapping his shoes for the thick socks, putting them on over the standard pair he's already wearing. John watches over the top of his book.

“Oh, those are lovely,” Harold says, wiggling his toes a little. Sure, the seam's a little open at the toe on his left foot, and there's a hole about the width of his thumb from a dropped stitch on the heel of the other, but Harold's feet are warming up now for the first time in what feels like months. “Thank you, John.”

“It's no worry,” John says, and goes back to his book. “I think they really round off your look, Harold.”

It's not until a little later that evening, on another constitutional around the Library, that Harold realizes the socks are the same color – even, upon closer inspection, the same wool – as the blanket on Reese's camp bed.

 

* * *

 

 

“Where are you getting all these knitted items, Mr Reese?” Harold asks over dinner, and it's abrupt, but he has to know.

“I found them. Why, would you like another pair of socks?” John responds, folding butter into his mashed potato.

“Will you be able to 'find' another pair if I say yes?” Harold asks.

“Probably,” John says, but the guarded look in his eyes belies his nonchalant tone.

“I must ask, Mr Reese, if you perhaps 'found' the socks, and indeed sweater, in the craft shop two blocks over? I happen to know that there aren't many places around here that sell handmade knitted items.”

John's voice remains calm, although he is looking very intently at the potato mash on his plate. “Perhaps.”

Harold knows not to push any further, so remains silent; for a man not known to crack under interrogation, John gives in relatively quickly and admits, after only a few minutes of somewhat stilted silence, “I may have found the components, rather than the items themselves.”

“Well, thank you, Mr Reese,” Harold says a little awkwardly, and he knows John is as uncomfortable being thanked as Harold is thanking him. “They're wonderfully warm.”

“I'm glad to hear it, Harold.”

“And I'm sure,” Harold continues, avoiding the potential of an awkward silence, “if he could, Bear would thank you most profusely for the sweater. He slept in it last night.”

This elicits a smile from John, and he leans down to stroke Bear, lying next to the table and waiting for Harold to feed him something. Harold smiles when he hears John tell the dog, “You're welcome, buddy.”

When they're washing up after the meal, John dunking the plates in hot water from the kettle and rinsing them off with the freezing cold water before handing them to Harold to dry, John says, “The way you responded to the idea of getting a present last night –“

“Don't worry about it, Mr Reese,” Harold says, and he touches him lightly on the elbow. John turns to him; they make eye contact and smile at each other for a long moment, before Harold looks away and starts wiping down cutlery with the already damp tea towel.

 

* * *

 

When the city thaws out, the heating is back on, and Shaw returns to the Library, she doesn't comment on the new knitted items they have collected; Bear's sweater, Harold's socks, and John's warm, grey and black striped hat.

Instead, she steals the hat, only for John to show up three days later with another, thicker hat, and a matching scarf to go with it. She still doesn't say anything, not even when she sees Harold's indulgent smile, the first time he sees Reese's new scarf.

(She almost says something, when Finch steps over to Reese and adjusts the scarf, touch lingering a little, both in each others personal space a little too much, and neither stepping away.)

 

* * *

 

For Christmas, Harold gets a fetching, cable-knit sweater, matching Bear's in colour. There is no tag inside the sweater, only the one stuck to the outside of the brown paper wrapping, which reads as follows:

 

_Harold,_

_Just trying to make sure you don't get frostbite._

_John_

 

Harold smiles, but he isn't embarrassed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: I don't know what jumpers are in America but apparently they're not what jumpers ACTUALLY are.. Bloody sweaters.
> 
> With thanks to Patricia for telling me "knitting Reese needs no justification" when it was the only idea I could come up with.  
> Not new to the fandom, but new to writing in it, so I hope this ridiculous piece of fluff isn't too abhorrent. Apologies for any and all Britishisms!  
> Follow me on twitter @drgeiszlerpls, or on tumblr at strikereurekavevo.tumblr.com for incoherent ramblings about Person of Interest.  
> Thanks for reading!


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